


The Boat

by wheel_pen



Series: Darkwood Eastport [25]
Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Magic, Polygamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Eastport. In the Valley before their marriage, Gillian knows something is wrong with Cal, who’s outside the Valley on business, but no one will listen to her. So all she can do is wait for him to reappear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boat

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe. I’ve given a lot of thought to the Darkwood culture, so if something seems confusing, feel free to ask. I hope you enjoy!

In the end, Gillian found she couldn’t do anything. So she just stood on the riverbank, watching the entrance, waiting for him to appear. Hoping he _would_ appear, and that if he did, it wouldn’t be too late.

She couldn’t get Franco to go to the Council. She couldn’t get Amelia to _get_ Franco to go to the Council. She had a feeling that even if Franco _had_ gone to the Council, they wouldn’t have done anything anyway. There was no place on Earth that was perfect, even legendary places outside of time; for all its advantages, the Valley didn’t exactly have bold, dynamic leadership. She certainly knew Franco wasn’t perfect, either; but she thought that maybe he would want to prove how tough and independent he was by taking a boat out to look himself—but she couldn’t get him to do that, either. And she couldn’t really take a boat out herself, not successfully, because although she would know which direction to go, she wouldn’t be able to make the boat go there. So all she could do, it seemed, was to pray, and to stand on the riverbank.

The entrance was a jagged cave mouth in the middle of a rock wall that faded into the woods on either side and into the moss and ferns above. If you went walking in the woods on one side of the entrance, you could eventually find yourself on the _other_ side of it, without ever having crossed the river that flowed from the rock opening. The river wasn’t very long, just enough to provide a bit of beach on the far side and a few docks for the ships on Gillian’s side; it ended in the lake, which was the bigger draw for water-based recreation. Gillian had always preferred the river, because it was always flowing, always changing, never still or placid—actually she preferred the ocean, but that was one geographic feature they didn’t have direct access to in the Valley.

The cave mouth at the entrance was difficult to size by sight—from the riverbank it looked maybe twice the height of your average person, but really it was large enough for the most massive sailing ships with their tall masts to glide in without fear. And yet, it looked small and unimpressive when the little boat drifted through it, caught in the swirls and eddies of the river, bumping gently off the edges of the rock, briefly sticking in the shallow sand before pushing free and meandering forward again. Gillian saw the little boat—like a life boat, perhaps—and she recognized it, and she understood that he was inside of it; but she had been standing on the riverbank for so long, staring, waiting, thinking, praying, that she felt frozen in place, unable to move at all towards the boat. Not that she could have reached it anyway.

A movement to the side caught her eye, snapping her out of the trance brought on by the flowing water—a servant standing on the bank had tossed a rope out and snagged the errant boat, drawing it to shore. Then Gillian moved, running along the bank in her high-heeled shoes that were ill-suited to dirt, dropping to her knees beside the boat in her grey wool dress that was ill-suited to grass. There was activity, noise around her from the servants and others who had run over as well, but all Gillian was aware of was the roar of the river rushing past, and the pale hand that dangled over the edge of the boat. It was ice-cold when she grabbed it. So was his cheek when she scrambled over the side and pulled his head into her lap—ice-cold, waxy, grayish, but that was hardly surprising as most of his blood seemed to be pooled in the bottom of the boat.

It was difficult to tell where the injury was now, when he’d been marinating in his own blood for hours, the hours Gillian had seen him bobbing aimlessly in the ocean, clearly adrift. If he had been _able_ to steer towards the entrance, Gillian had told Franco and Amelia, he _would_ have—but he _didn’t_ , and that meant something was wrong. Now she knew what. She called his name and patted his cheek lightly, unable to check for a pulse because her hands were shaking too much. He surely couldn’t be dead, though—what would be the point of letting him in? And if he were dead, she thought he would disappear from the map in her mind, which he hadn’t. So when his eyelids finally fluttered, she wasn’t exactly relieved, just very, very happy.

His eyes were glassy green as they stared up at her, unfocused, but he smiled slightly as he recognized her voice. He hissed out her name, which she felt more than heard, and smiled again when she assured him everything would be okay. She hoped she wasn’t lying, but she couldn’t make any guarantees. But this was Darkwood Valley—everything was _always_ okay here, wasn’t it, even if it wasn’t perfect.

The doctor’s appearance alarmed her. The boat rocked as he climbed in, bag in hand, and started searching for the injury, asking questions Gillian couldn’t answer. She was more concerned with why the doctor had come to _them_ , why the servants hadn’t just transported them directly to the hospital, or fixed things themselves. She didn’t understand the complex rules governing injuries, no doubt.

The doctor spoke again, but Gillian wasn’t listening; she kept her eyes fixed on the green ones, even as the blinks became longer and longer, and his eyes finally slid shut completely. The doctor grabbed her hand and pressed it firmly against dry, scratchy cloth, and Gillian held it in place as directed, frozen at the exact height the doctor had set it, not pressing harder nor easing up. For some reason it was vital that she not move at all.

There were rushed discussions around her; she thought perhaps she heard Franco’s voice, but she didn’t look up. It had suddenly occurred to her that she had never gotten to hold him like this before, never been this close for this long, and even if his eyes were shut she could stroke his cheek and forehead and imagine that he felt it and enjoyed it, and probably also found it ironic that right now, no one was going to stop her. He probably wished he could return the gesture, take advantage of this period of immunity.

Suddenly there was movement all around her, enough that Gillian at last looked up, brief and unfocused. The servants, she realized, must have picked the boat up, and they were carrying it—carrying it!—to the hospital. From her perspective it looked like they were floating across a sea of grass and flowers and vegetable gardens and tennis courts, floating in a boat full of blood with an ice-cold queen at the bow. Obviously, for some reason, they couldn’t slide right to the hospital instantly. Instead they floated up the steps—perfectly level—and into the entrance of the great hall, like a queen sailing into her palace, and only then did they lower the boat somewhat and attempt to move him.

Gillian let go quietly, when the doctor moved the hand he’d set in place, and the servants gathered to scoop their patient up and lay him on a waiting stretcher. Clinging to him desperately would accomplish nothing except a delay in his treatment, and she had known she wouldn’t be allowed to hold him forever anyway. The boat was lowered to the ground, wobbling slightly on the stone floor, and there was more talking, which seemed unnecessary now as he was rapidly disappearing into the gloom of the great hall, bound for some special room where doctors and nurses would start healing him. She understood that she would only be in the way there. But she would see him again, later.

Someone was pulling her up by her shoulders, so Gillian stood compliantly. Her feet wouldn’t move, though; but that was not actually her doing—her shoes were stuck deep in the puddle of blood and it was starting to congeal. Someone carefully lifted her feet out of the shoes and set her down on the hospital floor, the stones cold and slightly rough on her bare feet. Was she the first person to ever tread these stones barefoot? Had the Valley existed before the invention of shoes? And even if it had, had there somehow been shoes in the Valley anyway, because that was just the kind of luxury they offered?

Someone was pulling the grey wool dress off over her head—that was okay, she had a slip on underneath. Oh, no, they were pulling that off, too. For a moment the cool breeze threatened to puff away the dull, cobwebby feeling that surrounded her, but then another slip was dropped down over her outstretched arms, the silk cool and clean and fresh, and then there was a welcome moment of darkness as another dress was pushed over her head. Her hands and face were washed; it was an odd sensation, to have others do the things she usually did herself, but she knew that if they didn’t push and pull her around she would just stand there, lost in thought, like she had been on the riverbank. Oh, that reminded her, she needed to pray, to thank God for bringing him back. Gillian closed her eyes.

She opened them in a dark room garishly illuminated by a flickering TV screen whose picture constantly changed, the sound low but not muted. She knew at once where she was, though the words wouldn’t come. But that was alright, Cal always said enough for both of them.

“Awake, then, love?” he asked casually, glancing down at her. He was sitting beside her on the bed, on top of the blankets, dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, flicking aimlessly through the TV stations. Channel surfing, they called it here.

Gillian struggled to sit up a bit, the covers weighing her down. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her arm and jerked it away. “Ow!” The fuzziness started to clear from her brain and she saw Cal pulling his hand back—he had pinched her arm rather hard. “What was _that_ for?!”

He was unapologetic, as usual. “To make sure you were really awake this time,” he replied. “The body doesn’t feel pain during a parasomniac episode.”

Gillian gave a disgusted snort at his explanation and squirmed closer to him, leaning her head against his side with the sheet pulled over one bare shoulder for warmth. “I don’t have parasomnia,” she insisted. Again.

“Well my shins beg to differ,” Cal countered, draping his arm around her. “You’ll see in the morning, a giant bruise on each one from you kicking me in your sleep.”

“I was dreaming,” Gillian remembered hazily.

“Well that’s exactly my point,” Cal told her. “It’s a good thing we have the servants around or you would probably try to smother me in your sleep.”

“In which case the parasomnia would make a handy defense,” Gillian shot back, more awake now. She sighed as Cal stroked the spot he’d pinched. “Do you know what I was dreaming about?”

“Yeah, the time I got shot in that Swedish prison,” Cal answered immediately. “You always kick me when you’re tryin’ to get your feet outta the boat, and your shoes are stuck in the blood. Bit gruesome if you ask me.”

“Well it was _your_ blood,” Gillian reminded him tartly. “And a very nice pair of shoes.” He smirked a little, reading her admonition of him in her tone. She had always felt his ‘scheme’ of going undercover in a prison for the Swedish government was irredeemably stupid. As was his insistence that he be set adrift in a life boat, injured and alone, to bob around in the Gulf of Riga until the Valley decided to let him back in.

In fact almost every single aspect of the whole incident upset her, from the way his father had refused to help her look for him to the way the Council had berated him for leading outsiders so near the Valley entrance. The accusation was ridiculous, of course, as the Valley revealed itself only to select few, and the Gulf was fairly well-known as a Darkwood ‘hotspot.’ As for Cal’s father—well, Cal wouldn’t have expected anything less (or was it more) from a tough old sailor who didn’t believe Gillian could lead him in the right direction anyway.

“Well, I got a nice rest, anyway,” he remarked, turning off the TV with the remote. The room felt oddly dark and silent without it. Cal worked himself back down under the covers until he was curled up with Gillian again. “Didn’t I? And you got to visit every day, and sit on the bed and _hold my hand_. Very risqué.”

“Someone was watching us the whole time,” she pointed out, but she accepted the lightening of the mood. “I suppose you think _one_ of us ought to dream about it.”

“Well, I’d dream about it _for_ you if I could,” Cal replied honestly. “But as far as I know, that dream therapy is only supposed to turn dreams _off_ in people who normally have them, not the other way around.” And they all knew how Cal felt about dream therapy—he believed people should confront and accept, not block and suppress.

Gillian sighed and snuggled closer to Cal. “Well…” she began, wanting to say something hopeful and positive to end the conversation. But her sleepy brain couldn’t think of anything that was also true. “At least they got my shoes clean.” Hmm, that wasn’t quite what she’d been hoping for.

Cal started to laugh and Gillian turned her back on him in annoyance, looking for peace and quiet. He pressed up behind her, trying to recover some of the blankets she had rolled away with; it was their preferred sleeping position anyway. Not that he was particularly tired anymore, but he would probably drop off later—about fifteen minutes before the servants knocked, in fact. Sadly, he could already hear Gillian’s breaths evening out as she fell back asleep—and he hadn’t even gotten to remind her that she had never worn those shoes again.


End file.
